That Story
by DellaVie
Summary: I'm not this Dean Winchester guy. My name's Priestly. Always has been, always will be. I've lived here my whole life, and never set foot in Missouri. Or Milwaukee. I went to Chicago once, but there's no power on Earth that can make me tell you /that/ story.
1. That Little Old Lady

**Summary:** "I'm not this Dean Winchester guy. My name's Priestly. Always has been, always will be. I've lived here my whole life, and never set foot in Missouri. Or Milwaukee. I went to Chicago once, but there's no power on Earth that can make me tell you _that_ story." Pre-movie and series.

* * *

_**That**_ _Story_  
or  
_10 Reasons Why Priestly Doesn't Like Chicago:_

#1. The Little Old Lady

#2. The Weather

#3. The Computer Genius

#4. The Bars

#5. The Crazed Psycho

#6. The Women

#7. The Tripper

#8. The Lost Boy

#9. The Skateboard

#10. The Little Old Lady (Again)

Epilogue

* * *

#1 The Little Old Lady

He knew something was up from the moment he stepped off the bus. For one thing, the grumbling elderly lady that had sat behind him had given him a swift jab with her cane, pushing him off the bottom step. He turned around to see her giving him an unsavoury glare as she hobbled her way off the bus. Not that it was anything new.

From the second he sat down she had cast him a suspicious glance and leaned over to her companion and clearly said, "Look at that ruffian. No respect for clothing. Youths today don't have any regard for manners and appearance. Why just look at his hair, I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to hijack the bus."

He glanced down at his clothes. Sure the jeans were a little torn and the shirt was faded, but no one wore their best clothes when they were riding across country in a bus, for crying out loud. Well, no one except Granny back there, apparently.

Because he couldn't resist, he stuck a finger up his nose and pretended to scope out the bus. When he came face to face with the woman in question, he pretended like the nose-picking wasn't intentional and conspicuously removed his finger, taking care to wipe it on the seat in front. He then stuck out his hand to the one he assumed made the comment – the one currently leaning back with a look of revulsion on her face was a safe bet – and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Bo."

She didn't shake his hand, and he didn't expect her to. Still, he put on the show of looking crestfallen. Her companion was just smiling politely, and if he didn't know any better he'd swear she was amused by the whole thing.

"Uhh, nice hair." He offered, trying not to snicker. The woman who was quick to condemn his own locks – which granted, were getting a little long… and messy – had purple hair. Purple. Hair. At least his was a natural colour. And besides, it hid the piercings on his ears. He wondered what the lady would say if she knew he was thinking of getting another one on his lower lip. _"Help, I'm having a stroke!"_ would probably be up there on the list. _"He's got a gun!"_ might run a close second.

He kept it to himself and instead focused on the journey ahead of him. He was visiting Uncle Jasper because his mother had decided he needed discipline, and to get out of the house. He'd graduated high school over a year ago and his time since then had been spent loafing about doing a whole lot of nothing. He suspected that the other reason for this visit was so that his mum could have all his things in a nice, tidy bundle on the front lawn by the time he got back. Which meant he'd have to get a job. _Joy_.

Having decided he didn't really want to think about it at the moment, he spent the rest of the trip counting mile markers. He gave up every time he got to twenty. Which meant that there were _x_ times 20, plus 9 mile markers between Santa Cruz and Chicago.

But back to getting off the bus…

He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, making his way down to the terminal. He had to find a cab to take him to Jas' place, because it was well known amongst the family that Jasper Priestly didn't do anything except work, work and sleep when he could work no more. It was assumed that he also ate, but no one had yet to see any proof, so the jury was still out on that one. He lived in a two room apartment in… Chicago – _check address_ – and never came to family events unless he happened to be in town on business. So sending Boaz to stay with him was really a lesson in self-suffiency.

And the first aspect of an autonomous individual was being able to get from the bus depot to an address that he'd apparently lost along the way. Crap, he was gonna need quarters.

He bumped shoulders with someone who was rushing into the terminal, sending all his change flying. "Yeah, thanks a lot buddy!" He called after, but the other guy either didn't hear, or couldn't spare the time to turn around as he zipped into the building. When he'd picked it all up, Boaz bee-lined for the phones. As the phone dialled, he could hear the shrill voice Granny going off at someone else. _Poor bastard_.

He'd written down his Uncle's address for the second time and made his way out to the taxi bank. He was about to hop in when his hand was smacked away from the door. "Ow, Jesus Christ!" He looked over to see Granny glowering at him. "…Our Lord and Saviour?"

She swatted him again, this time in the leg. "Christ lady, what the hell is your problem?"

Probably not the best thing to say, as she turned a nice shade of red before she started swinging the walking stick at him with as much force as she could muster, which was a lot for an old lady. She kept rambling about youths and respect and Boaz was going to go nuts if she hit him one more- oww!

"Alright lady," He caught the cane mid-swing, "I don't know what your problem is-"

"Rape!" She screamed "He's trying to rape me!"

"Lady, I'm three feet away!" He shouted, effectively cutting her off. "Look, I have no idea what happened to your meds, but will ya stop swinging your cane at me and tell me what's going on?"

The old lady was too chuffed to speak, and had worked herself into a frenzy that a few more breaths were needed to calm down, so her companion spoke up politely. "We were wondering if we could perhaps hail this cab?"

Boaz looked at Purple, then to the cabbie. His eyes were impossibly wide and his jaw slightly dropped. He doubted he'd ever seen someone go to such lengths to get a cab when there was another lying in wait right behind him. He let go of the cane and Granny yanked it back ferociously. He opened the door and stepped back. Far back.

Normally he wouldn't push his limit, but since Granny had hit him about ten times, he couldn't resist. Just as she turned away from him, he said, "Would you like some drugs to help you with your problem?"

She whipped around. "What?"

"I said would you like me to help you with your bags?"

From the way she clutched her handbag to her chest he gathered that she thought he was trying to steal them. He tried not to smile.

When she was in the cab, she shuffled along to the other side and called out a brusque "Come along, Hilda." Which he could only surmise was directed at her companion. He turned to said lady who didn't seem surprised at the order. In fact her attention was on him, eyebrow raised. For some reason, her being disappointed in him meant a lot more than it did coming from 'The Old Bat'. He offered a sheepish smile.

She held out her bag, and Boaz put it in the trunk for her. When he was done, he turned to see her standing at the door smiling at him. "Your brother is inside looking for you."

I don't have a brother, whilst being the correct response, didn't seem the right thing to say, so he simply replied, "Uhh, thanks."

She nodded and ducked into the cab. Boaz could hear Granny Purple starting up another tirade about him as the door slammed shut.

He sorely hoped that would be the last he saw of them as he stepped back to allow another taxi to roll into its place.

Just before he got in, he stopped to admire a sleek, black Chevy that passed by. That was definitely going on the list of things to buy when he got a job.

He hopped into the cab and headed off to his Uncle's, where many a joke about being blind and "turning on bubbles" awaited.


	2. The Weather

#2 The Weather

The next day wasn't any better for Boaz. He woke up to the dreary onslaught of rain _patpatpat_ing his window and an ache in his back from sleeping on an unfamiliar and painfully unused couch. He roused himself to his feet and stretched, his mind trying to kick into gear plans for what he could do today. The television was already out; he'd discovered last night that the only channels it had connected were news and weather. He sighed. _At least I can eat something, if I go real slow it could pass the time until lunch_.

As he was eating the only cereal in the house, he spotted a note for him on the counter.

_Bo_, it read,

_Delera said you needed work. Phil needs hands packing at his warehouse. Start at 9._

Underneath was a rushed set of lines supposedly indicating a map that he could neither make heads nor tails out of. And a quick glance at the clock told him that it was five past ten.

His eyes wandered back to the couch with longing.

Some unmeasurable amount of duty restrained him though, and he quickly changed and headed out into the rain, which was now a light drizzle.

Halfway down the street, he was so busy trying to decipher his uncle's scribble that he didn't notice the skateboard in his path until he was lying face-first on the pavement with a sprained wrist.

_Today sucks_, his mind accurately informed him and he struggled to his feet. It was raining, he was late and now out of nowhere a skateboard had shown up and tripped him. Oh, and the temperature seemed to have dropped so now he was wet, hurt and _freezing_.

He quickly looked around for the possible owner of his misfortune and, unable to see anyone, stamped his foot down on it in ownership. With one last glance at the map, he pushed off and rode down the street, slippery surface be damned. (Well, on the outside at least. On the inside he was careful not to go too fast that he'd have trouble stopping.)

After twenty minutes he managed to locate the warehouse. He jumped off the skateboard, leaned it against the wall and headed in out of the cold.

Phil was an older sort of man with a slight belly and a permanent frown. He also smelled strongly of cigar smoke, which kind of made sense as he was smoking one when Boaz approached.

"You Jasper's kid?" He grunted.

"His nephew," Boaz corrected, but Phil didn't seem to care about the details.

"You were s'posed to be here an hour and a half ago."

"Yeah, the directions weren't exactly easy." He held up the paper as evidence. Phil's frown deepened as he tried to make sense of the lines. When he couldn't he instead asked,

"What happened to your face, you get in a fight?"

When Boaz checked, he realised he was bleeding just above his left eyebrow. "No, I... uhh..."

"Got no time for fighting, boy. You come here and you work, that's all."

"Yeah, sure, uhh, sir."

With one last grunt, Phil foistered him off to a stocky blond named Jake, who aside from showing him the ropes, was much more easy-going.

"Dun't worry about Phil, 'ee's not as bad as'ee seems." He led him down to the back. "So, wha' brings ya to Chicago?"

=.=

"_Boaz," his mother sighed as she appeared in the room. "Why don't you do something productive?"_

"_I am," He replied, slouched in front of the couch. He flicked through the channels with a precision that only came from years of experience. "I'm… Preparing myself."_

_Delera sighed and started picking up the rubbish he was currently ensconced in. "Ally McBeal isn't on for another two hours; you have plenty of time to go and get a job before then. Or do the washing. Or even put your clothes in one pile for washing."_

_He didn't bother to move as she yanked out the empty chip packet behind his back "No, I'm preparing myself for life. It's a delicate…" _Stop there, Simpsons is on. No wait, it's the elephant episode. Come back if nothing else is on._ Flick. "…process that requires a lot of…" _Stargate? Eh, the movie was kinda lame._ Flick. "…focus, or I'll…" _Skinflick?_ "…fail…" _Wait, that's not right…_ "at… life…" _Oh, it's Species II._ Flick._

"_That doesn't make any sense, Boaz. Boaz?"_

"_I'm sorry, what?"_

_Delera snatched the remote. "Pack a bag. You're going to Chicago."_

"_Since when?"_

"_Since right now."_

_He reached for the remote. "That's a little short notice, don't you think?"_

_She raised it out of his reach. "I'm giving you a day to prepare."_

_=.=_

"The wind," he replied. "I hear you guys are famous for it."

Jake let out a bark of laughter. "Yell fit in 'ere alright, that's fer sure."

Jake then taught him how to operate the forklift, to which Boaz spent the rest of the day on. "Yer s'posed te 'ave a licence fer it, but considerin' ya can't do much on account of yer wrist, how's about we just keep it t'ween us, yeah?"

Which suited Boaz just fine. By the end of the day, things were looking up. He'd made some new friends; A tall lanky college student named Tom, a short excitable guy that seemed to work three part-time jobs nicknamed "Buzzer" by Jake ("'Cos 'ee's always buzzin' round like a bee, see?"), and Delia, a disinterested brunette who worked out the front in sales and only came in when the customers started to annoy her.

After Phil returned to pay everyone, Jake clapped him on the back and said, " 'Ow's about we go out for a drink, yeah? Welcome ya in the traditional sense."

Not wanting to decline, but also not being twenty-one yet, Boaz hesitated. Tom seemed to pick up on the reason and said. "Don't worry, I'm not legal yet either. Jake has a friend who can fix you up; shouldn't be a problem."

When Jake agreed ("S'gonna cost ya, o'course,"), Boaz feigned consternation. "Alright, I'll go on one condition:

"You tell me where the hell you're from."

Jake just laughed, slapped him on the back one last time and headed out the door.

Delia walked up next to him and said, "We've all tried, he just won't answer. Tom thinks he's English, Buzzer thinks he's Australian. Phil doesn't care so long as he works."

"What do you think?"

"I think he's faking it." Delia replied. "Wouldn't be the only thing he's faking, either." She walked off to join the others, leaving Boaz to catch up.


	3. The Computer Genius

#3 The Computer Genius

Before they headed to the bar, they made a pit stop down by some less-than-stellar apartments where Jake assured him the best forger of fake IDs resided.

Banging on apartment 2D, they were greeted by a half-asleep roadie in worn jeans and a shirt that hadn't been buttoned correctly. "Hey Jake, what's up?"

"Need ya to rustle up an ID fer Bo 'ere," He jerked his thumb in Boaz direction.

After blinking the last vestiges of sleep away, the man took in Boaz with a yawn and said, "Shouldn't be a problem." He turned around and headed back into his apartment. "Mi casa e su casa," He called back, prompting everyone else to follow.

It wasn't that the room was messy, per se. It was just that there wasn't a whole lot in it besides empty cans, bottles, take-away boxes and some salt that had been spilled by the doorway.

They all found themselves seats on varying items of furniture - the couch, a chair, and in Buzzer's case, on the coffee table - leaving Boaz to find a nice piece of wall to lean against.

"So, uhh..." Boaz started.

"Ash," he replied, snatching up his laptop and plonking himself down on a giant beanbag.

"...Ash, where'd you learn how to... counterfeit?" It was a weak attempt at conversation, but Ash didn't seem to mind.

"College."

"What college teaches Counterfeiting?"

"Wasn't really the college, more the people at M.I.T."

Boaz blinked. "You went to M.I.T.?"

"Yeaaaaah," He drew it out. "Listen, uh, Bo - you wouldn't happen to have a last name, now would you?" He paused in his typing.

"Uh, yeah. Priestly." The tapping started up again.

"From California, Maine or California?"

"Santa Cruz."

"Right." Ash buried himself in the laptop, typing away efficiently. "Does that mean that your full name is Boaz Liddell Priestly?"

He muttered a regretful "Yeah" at the same time Buzzer echoed "Boaz?"

"I prefer Bo, alright?"

"I can see why," Tom muttered.

Thankfully Ash derailed the name conversation before any more comments could be made. "And would I be correct in assuming you were born July second, nineteen seventy-nine?"

Boaz frowned. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"Not anymore, you're not. You are now born on July second, nineteen seventy-eight. Congratulations on being twenty-one."

"Wait, what?"

By this time Ash had already stood up and disappeared into another room with his laptop.

"He's like a genius hacker," Tom explained, "He can hack into the records and change your date of birth."

"Once there was this person who hacked into London television and interrupted the broadcast. They never managed to find out who it was." Buzzer ticked his head towards the door as if to say that Ash was the one that did it.

Delia was filing her nails, unimpressed. "Or he lied about it."

At that moment Ash reappeared. He set his laptop down on the small table and handed Boaz a card. "One new and as-far-as-the-government-knows legal driver's licence."

Boaz looked at it. It was exactly the same as his current one in every detail, except a nine had been changed to an eight. "How did you...?" He trailed off, realising he probably wouldn't want to know. Instead he asked, "Why not just create a fake ID?"

Ash shrugged. "That's a lot of hassle, man. You gotta come up with a name, and an address and everything. This way you don't have to remember anything. Less likely to get caught out that way."

Boaz took one final glance at the card before smiling. "Thanks man."

"No problem. Will that be cash or cheque?"

"Uhh..." Boaz looked to his newfound friends. They hadn't mentioned a specific price. "How much is it?"

"Two grand, same as usual."

Two thousand dollars? He didn't have two thousand dollars! All he had was what he'd been paid today and that was a wall short of two thousand dollars. "I don't have it," He blurted.

"Well then, that's a bit of a problem." Ash snatched the card back.

Before he could stumble over an explanation, Jake interrupted.

" 'Ow's about ye give 'im the card, an'ee'll pay ye back when he gets it. I'll give ya me word on that."

Ash shrugged, "Okay," and returned the card to Boaz.

Feeling obliged to say something, Boaz stamped down the "What the fuck just happened?" and mumbled a feeble "Thanks, man" before following Tom out the door.

Once outside, Jake pulled him aside to speak to him in a serious manner, which did nothing to alleviate his confusion and growing panic. "You best be paying 'im, Bo. I gave 'im me word ya would."

"I will," Boaz assured him, a little unnerved by the sudden change in character.

"Good, good. See, 'cos if you dun't, I gotta pay 'im outta me own pocket, 'cos I gave 'im me word, see?"

"Yeah, yeah I understand. Thanks for that." Boaz' mood slumped. His newfound 'friends' had just managed to swindle him out of two grand, and he'd only known them a day, if that.

"Cheer up," Jake smiled. "Now let's go 'ave that drink, yeah?"

Boaz realised that if he had to pay Ash a shitload of money, he probably shouldn't go wasting what little he had on drinks.

"Not to worry, first night's on us, innit boys?"

Buzzer and Tom didn't seem to mind. Delia just raised an eyebrow, and Boaz wasn't sure if she was asking if he was serious, or implying something else.

So he pretended he didn't notice and followed them to the bar.


	4. The Bars

#4 The Bars

The sun had set two hours ago by the time they ambled into the gloomy bar. It wasn't classy, but the floors also weren't covered in unknown substances, so Boaz didn't really mind. The only perturbrance was the man in the corner that seemed to have locked onto him the moment he walked in and wouldn't take his eyes off. Boaz pretended not to notice him as they made their way around the tables to a booth by the corner.

Buzzer took off for the bar as the rest slid into the booth; Delia on the inside next to Boaz, and Jake and Tom on the other side.

"Buzzer works here weekends so he's working his magic on the drinks." Tom said.

"Which is to say, he makes sure our glasses are clean," Delia clarified, cleaning her glasses lazily.

Boaz nodded in understanding and slowly cast his eyes around the bar. The man from earlier was still trying to sneak furtive glances over his beer, and the three men at the pool table abruptly turned away when he looked their way, their stances leaving no doubt that they were talking about him.

_They can probably tell I'm not twenty-one,_ he thought, _Tom could get away with it because he's tall, and didn't shave this morning._ He froze. _They wouldn't tell anyone, right?_ He looked over again, and they were smiling in a way that made him uncomfortable. It probably didn't help matters that they then started over to the booth.

Boaz groaned. _This can't end well, not with my luck this week._

Buzzer returned with the drinks about the same time the men started to head over, so their approach went unnoticed by everyone except Boaz. It wasn't until they were standing two feet away did everyone else stop fighting over the booze and look up.

"Help ya?" Jake asked.

The apparent leader of the three, a dangerous looking man built like a tank with a hair cut that screamed "Army! He's fuckin' trained to KILL – Piss off at own risk," squared his gaze straight on Boaz.

"How's about that rematch?"

Boaz frowned. "Uhh..."

His companions turned to him then, Tom voicing what all the others were thinking, "You been here before Bo?"

"That would be a 'no'."

"Except for last night, right?" Crew-cut replied.

Boaz didn't really want to tell the possible marine and his two buddies (that, now he thought about it, looked like they were in the same platoon or regiment or whatever) something he wasn't looking to hear.

Without explicitly saying "no", Boaz said, "I just got into town last night."

The blond blinked. "Good for you."

"So I... wasn't here."

The mans' eyes narrowed. "Unless my friends and I are mistaken, you did say that the next time you were in here you would gladly accept a rematch. Well here you are, I would like my rematch."

Boaz cleared his throat, as though he knew he was going to get his ass kicked for saying what he was about to; "You're mistaken." When Blondie glared at him, he hastily added, "But sure, let's have a game."

The man smiled, and Boaz was suddenly put in mind of sharks.

The three turned and headed back to the table, leaving Boaz to face three puzzled stares and one impassive one.

"I ain't gonna tell that guy no – he'd kill me," was all Boaz said before slipping out of the booth and following the others.

"Hey, Bo," Jake called, scrambling after him. "Can you play pool at all?"

"Not really, no." Boaz answered. "But I'm hoping that after he realises that, he'll leave me alone."

"Good call." Buzzer piped in.

Delia, who was carrying the drinks over, scoffed and rolled her eyes. When Boaz looked her way she didn't say anything.

They reached the pool table all too soon, and Blondie was circling it, tossing a cue in Boaz' direction. "You can break," he said.

"Uhh, 'kay." Boaz walked over to the head of the table and lined up his shot.

With a loud _clack_ the balls spun out in their own directions (none came back towards him). When they had all settled, he realised that all sixteen were still on the table. _Yep, that's about right._

Blondie raised an eyebrow as if to say he wasn't buying it and took his turn. He sank three balls before it came back to Boaz, who fumbled on the nine. Blondie snickered and sank another two. "You really think I'm going to fall for that again?" he asked.

Boaz didn't know how to reply to that, so instead he just sunk the nine (finally), and then tried for thirteen (he missed).

The game was over in less than ten minutes, with Blondies' mates smirking at him. "Never seen a man so eager to give up his money," the shorter of the two remarked.

Boaz opened his mouth, but it was Jake who spoke. "Na hold on, no one ever said this was fer money."

"Course it is," Blondie replied. "Fifty dollars, same as before. No point in having a rematch unless there's dough on the table."

Tom jumped into the discussion at that point, backing up Jake who was refuting the claim. Boaz remained silent as he tried to figure out how, in the span of an hour, he came to be in two-thousand and _fifty_ dollars in debt. It just wasn't making sense.

"Alright fine, we'll waive that first one," Blondie's voice cut in. "But from here on in, you better start putting money down."

"I don't _have_ any money."

"What, you spent it already?" The third man, a redhead scoffed.

"How could I spend-" Was as far as Boaz got before Blondie held up a hand to cut him off.

"Look, just shut-up and play." His tone brook no argument.

"Fine, but just one game. Emphasis on the one. _One_." He repeated, making sure Blondie understood. The big man looked annoyed at him but said nothing to the contrary, which Boaz took to mean yes and racked up the balls again.

Blondie broke and the game proceeded in much the same fashion as the first had. The only difference was that, with each failed shot by Boaz, Blondie grew more and more agitated. When he finally sunk the eight ball, he was almost livid. "Again."

"What?" Boaz was incredulous.

"Cut the crap, and play properly."

"Look, I know this may be hard for you to believe, but some people can't play pool as well as you."

Blondie slammed the pool cue onto the table. "You really expect me to believe that you can't play pool; that last night was just a _wonderful stroke of luck_? Do you really think that's likely?" Before Boaz could reply, Blondie steamrolled over the top, his voice a barely controlled rage. "Or, do you think it's more likely that some punk kid has just realised that he's gotten in over his head swindling someone he shouldn't have, and is trying to cut the game short so he doesn't have to give back the money he cheated?"

Boaz raised his hands in placation. "Dude, I have no idea what you're talking about."

It was the wrong thing to say. Boaz' mind knew that the second he'd said it, informing him with an exasperated _idiot_ and a mental slap.

Enraged by the remark, Blondie started for Boaz; his large flexed fingers intent on making good on the warning his haircut gave.

He was met half way by Jake, who was trying to diffuse the situation. Blondie however was having none of it, and shoved Jake out of the way.

Not one to take physical assaults lying down, Jake sprung back up and shoved him back. Blondie's two friends rushed to his aide, and the second they both tried to gang up on Jake all hell broke loose.

Tom and Buzzer darted in to defend Jake. Boaz was about to help when he was reminded why this all started with a swift punch to the face. He stumbled over the table and barely had time to look up when Blondie was attacked by his would-be stalker from before. The man jabbed Blondie in the gut, winding him before tripping him over. He then wasted no time in shoving Boaz out the back door before he could even speak.


	5. The Crazed Psycho

#5 The Crazed Psycho

When he was outside, he found himself doubled over trying to breathe. In between huffs he managed a "Thanks, man." that was overrun by his saviour, who was pacing in half-steps and ranting... at him, apparently.

"Damnit Dean, what the hell were you thinking? You should know better!"

Okay, so maybe his rescuer wasn't as 'all-together' as he thought. Probably a good time to flee.

"Look, thanks for the save back there, but I'm gonna head..." _back inside_ was probably not the best thing to say, considering the man seemed quite intent on getting him out of there. "...home now."

"You're damn right you're going home. And you're gonna stay there. No bars, no hunting - nothing."

Boaz was beyond lost at this point. _What. The hell. Was going on? And who the hell was this guy?_

Seeing Boaz' stunned expression, the man seemed to soften up. "I know you're upset about Sam, but this kind of reckless behaviour isn't going to solve anything."

"Yeah... Yeah, you're right." Boaz said hesitantly. "I should just go home and calm down now." He hoped the guy bought it.

And he did, which told Boaz that he was either a) good actor, or b) whomever the guy thought he was (a hallucination, probably) usually gave up without a fight.

Not wanting to waste an opportunity, Boaz started around the man to circle around to the front of the bar.

He made it all of two steps before the man grabbed his shoulder. "When did you get your ears pierced?"

_Crap. Quick, think of something_! "They're not, they're fakes."

The man gave Boaz a dubious look before his hand started reaching for Boaz' ear.

Guessing what was coming; Boaz freaked a little and backpedalled out of reach. "Okay I lied, they're real. No need to yank them off." From the look on the man's face, Boaz guessed that he still had to answer the question. Crap.

Seeing the blank look on Boaz' face, the mans' eyes narrowed. "What's my name?"

"Rumplestilkskin," Spilled out of Boaz' mouth before he could stop himself. From the look on the man's face, Boaz could correctly assume that he was not amused.

In fact the next thing he knew, Boaz' face was planted against the brick wall of the bar, and a very distinct pressure was felt on the back of his head.

"What the hell are you?" The man growled.

"Right now I'm scared. Scared and poor. Very poor. So you have no reason to shoot me, right?"

There was a pause. The next words were calculating, meaningful. "I'm going to count to three, and when I do-"

"Hey Bo, you out here mate?" Buzzer breezed through the back door, his head jerking this way and that as he tried to spot his friend.

Boaz couldn't see behind him, so he couldn't exactly tell if the man behind him was the kind that would shoot him for making a sound. It was a risk he was willing to take. "Yeah buddy, over here."

As Buzzer grew closer, Boaz heard the _click_ of the gun pointed at his person. Hadn't his night been bad enough already? He could officially say that he hated Chicago.

When Buzzer was close enough to see what was going on, he stopped short with his hands up. "Woah, hey, let's not go crazy now, huh?"

"Oiy Buzzer, you out 'ere, mate?" Great, Jake too, and if the footsteps were any indication, Tom and Delia were with him.

"Over here." Buzzer replied, and the silence was almost palpable as everyone waited for the group to convene.

Jake looked at Boaz, and then the man holding the gun on him and blinked. "Cor Bo, you sure know 'ow to make friend's, yeah?"

Boaz was about to point out that Jake was his friend, but wasn't going to risk saying anything whilst in his current position. Jake seemed to realise that too.

"Look, mate, I dunno 'ow Bo's dun yer wrong, But surely it's no reason to be killin' the man, now is it?"

_I didn't do anything! The guy is psycho!_ Boaz bit down the words.

The man glared at them suspiciously. "What is this?"

"Tell me mate, yer the one with the gun."

He seemed slightly confused by the turn of events, as though it wasn't the way it was supposed to go. "Christo."

Jake shared a look with Buzzer before he said, "Sorry, wha'?"

But the man wasn't listening. In fact, he was looking at Tom with the strangest look on his face. It was almost as though they were having their own conversation in that one glance. When Tom tilted his head ever-so slightly, Boaz felt the pressure on his head ease a little.

"Who are you?" He asked at last.

"'M Jake, an' this is Buzzer, Tom, Delia an' I take it ye've already met Bo."

The man turned to Boaz. "Bo?" He echoed.

"Boaz," he grudgingly admitted. "I prefer Bo."

It seemed like an eternity, but the man finally lowered his gun. "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

_Oh, is that all?_ Boaz tried to think up a reply, and ultimately settled on a lame, "That's alright."

The man looked around the group one last time, before nodding and backing away.

The second he turned around, Jake thumbed in his direction. "'Oo the hell wassat?"

Boaz tossed up his hands. "No friggin' idea. Rumplestilkskin."

A snort drew their attention to the retreating form. Apparently he had heard Boaz. He muttered something in reply, which caused Jake and Boaz to share puzzled looks.

"He says his name's John. Or Jack." Buzzer informed them.

"What did he want?" Delia was looking right at Boaz.

"Seriously. No idea. I've never seen him before in my life."

Jake slung an arm over Boaz' shoulders. "'Ee's jus' a people person, aren't ya Bo? Now, what do ya say we 'ead off 'fore some old lady tries to beat ya to death with her handbag?"

Considering his luck thus far tonight, that sounded a little too plausible for his liking. He nodded and followed the others to the car.


	6. The Women

#6 The Women

The next couple of days were – _thank God!_ – uneventful. He worked, he slept and he was even talked into returning to the bar again, after Buzzer assured him that the owner had banned the three unruly army men that had left a wonderful, black-and-blue impression on the right side of his face. Or perhaps it was his mentally unstable saviour named Jack (or possibly John) that gave him that parting gift. Either way, Phil was clearly unimpressed the next time he saw him, reminding Boaz of his low tolerance for violent shenanigans. While Jake and Buzzer were ready to defend him, it was Delia who beat them to it, and in her bored, unimpressed manner informed Phil that Boaz just happened to be the unluckiest person alive – a sentiment he mentally agreed with.

Phil grumbled away the problem, and everyone settled into a friendly working routine. Things started looking up as the weekend approached and it was this calming lull that had Boaz thinking a trip to the mall wouldn't be such a bad idea.

He rolled out of bed bright and early Saturday morning (eleven forty, which _was_ early for a weekend, thank you very much), dressed and hopped a bus into town, intending to spend all his hard-earned money when he remembered that he still owed Ash. _Okay, half of my hard-earned money... Less than half._

Regardless, after the welcome Chicago had given him, he felt he was owed a little happiness. And right now that happiness was buying things.

He arrived at the mall just before noon, and spent a good ten minutes just looking at the different types of shops before he decided that he was hungry. Following the unmistakeable smell of something being fried in butter, Boaz found himself in front of a kitschy cafe deciding he didn't care what he had, as long it was fried and contained bacon. He approached the counter, intending to tell the girl on the other side just that when the smile fell off her face at the sight of him.

"Hi." He smiled, trying to right whatever wrong he'd unknowingly made already.

Tina, as the nametag indicated, merely raised an eyebrow. Her blue eyes took in the fading shiner on his face and smirked.

Unable to fathom the moods of women, Boaz tried to lighten the suddenly subzero atmosphere by pretending not to notice. "How are you?"

"You mean after you didn't call? Fine, I'm fine." She was not fine. She was blonde and cute and severely pissed off.

Clearly he was missing something, and given the circumstances of the past few days, he had an idea. There was someone else in this town that looked like him, or close enough that people were willing to beat him up, threaten to kill him and reach across the counter and slap him, if Tina was any indication. He tried to tell her as much;

"Look, Tina-"

She cut him off. "Oh, you remembered my name? I'm shocked."

"You're wearing a nametag." He pointed at her shirt.

She slapped her hand over the badge and blinked up at him, faux innocence. "Are you sure it says Tina? Not Grace?"

He wasn't going to be able to salvage this, he realised. _Best to cut your losses and walk away_. Still, he felt he owed it to the girl to say something. "I'm sorry."

Faced with the sincerity of his words, she paused. "You're sorry." It wasn't a question, more of an echo.

He nodded. "For whatever I did, I'm sorry."

At that, she did slap him. Right on the bruise. He swore.

The sound brought the cook out of the kitchen, and Boaz threw his hands up before any assumptions could be made. "I'm leaving. Okay? I'm leaving. You won't ever see me again."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away as fast as he could and still have it called 'walking'.

He got as far as the escalators, one hand gingerly holding his face when he bumped into another tiny, blonde girl. Boaz flinched away automatically before realising that it wasn't Tina, though there were definitely some similarities. The look on her face, for one.

He didn't want to say it – he knew he shouldn't – but curiosity got the better of him. "Grace?"

Yes, Boaz's clever deduction had paid off. "Piece of advice?" Grace said, adjusting the strap on her handbag which only served to make Boaz edge back another millimetre or so. "The next time you go cruising for women – try and pick different malls. It makes it much less likely that they'll know each other."

Boaz didn't really know how to reply to that, and in hindsight the very first thing to come to mind probably wasn't the best course of action. "Thank you?" And when her eyes narrowed he added, "For the advice?"

And for all the good that millimetre did him, Boaz was still slapped. On his bruised face. Again.

It was shortly after that encounter – that is to say, immediately – that Boaz had decided he didn't need to buy anything. In fact, what he needed was to leave, right now.

So he did. With his stomach rolling in hunger and unspent money in his pocket, Boaz hightailed it out of the mall and into the first diner he could find. He was never so grateful to be served by a man in his life.

=.=

He had nearly finished his grease-filled lunch when the door to the diner opened, revealing a familiar face. Boaz sent out a half wave and Tom, accompanied by an elder Latina, made their way over.

Standing alongside the table, Tom gestured to the woman beside him. "Boaz this is my mother, Marina. Mamá, this is Boaz. He works with me."

"Pleased to meet you." Boaz got the mother vibe straight away, from the glance at his unkempt hair, to the slight eyebrow twitch at his piercings. What he didn't get was the glaring difference in skin tone. Tom was as white as rice. Boaz casually glanced over. Okay, Tom was as tan as... Well, he didn't look Mexican, at the very least. _I think that's racist_, his mind casually informed him, and Boaz amended it to be that he didn't resemble his mother, at all. Except for maybe the eyes, which were the same dark, soulful brown as his mothers. And the hair, which was almost – but not quite – black. And maybe the cheekbones... _How is this surprising, again?_ Shut up, he told his mind, it's been one of those days.

While Boaz was keeping his socially impolite musings to himself, Marina and Tom settled themselves across from him.

"En la fábrica?" Marina spoke, and Tom answered as he passed her the menu.

"It's actually a warehouse, but yeah."

"Hmm." She agreed, and turned her attention to the menu.

"Mother has already met Jake," Tom informed Boaz, with a curve to his lips that suggested it was a memorable event. The eyeroll Marina gave at that comment only cemented the fact.

A waitress came by that moment, and took their orders, and afterwards Boaz found himself under the polite scrutiny of a mother.

"So Boaz," Marina asked, in surprisingly perfect English. "Are you studying at college like Alejandro?"

_Who the hell is Alejandro?_ Was the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm Alejandro." Tom said, seemingly sensing his thoughts.

"Is Tom your middle name?" Boaz asked.

"No, it's Roberto, after my father, Bert Masters." Tom explained.

That only served to confuse Boaz even more. "Then where the hell did Tom come from?"

Tom shrugged. "It's a nickname."

Marina clucked disapprovingly, and Boaz felt as though he was missing something.

"But even Phil calls you Tom."

"Once Jake gives you a nickname, you're stuck with it." Tom answered in that matter of fact way that suggested there was nothing you could do about it. Which made sense to Boaz, who had still yet to find out what Buzzer's actual name was.

Suddenly Marina's reaction to Jake, and this thread of conversation, made a lot more sense.

The conversation flowed freer after that, with Boaz almost putting his foot in it when he asked Marina if she was visiting for long. She lived here, apparently, with her husband (who was a lawyer). Tom jumped in and stemmed any awkward moments by telling Boaz that his mother had actually just returned from visiting her parents in Spain (not Mexico, another blunder averted), and had spent the past two months outdoors helping with their family's vineyard.

"She got sunburned on the first day," Tom smirked at his mother.

"You'd think, with our lineage, that my skin could withstand a little sun." Marina huffed. "But after three years of working indoors and not seeing any natural light, apparently it takes the body a little getting used to."

Tom then went on describing all the jokes he and his father had made upon her return, about not recognising her and how she had let down her Spanish ancestry by getting scorched after half an hour of sun. Marina had taken it all in stride, responding that her husband now sleeps on the couch, "Until the doghouse is finished, he's been working on that for the past... I don't know, seventeen weekends?" and how Tom now has to pay for his own college tuition.

"Which is why you see me hauling furniture three days a week," Tom finished with a wink.

Boaz enjoyed the company, and any wistful comparisons made to his own family were quickly swept away by a conversation that demanded attention. They asked Boaz about his family, and after a little peppering of a life with a single parent, they seemed to pick up on the clue and changed topics from everything to the weather, Santa Cruz, Tom's youthful adventures and even gridiron, of which Marina was an avid fan. The mother and son played off each other like professionals, trading remarks and exaggerating certain aspects of each others' stories. Occasionally they would shift in an out of Spanish, but they always managed to keep it within understandable parameters for Boaz. They ended up staying at the diner for three hours, and Boaz had laughed more in one afternoon than he had the entire time he'd been in Chicago.

As four o'clock approached Tom bid his mother goodbye, and Boaz was one hundred percent sincere when he told Marina that it was a pleasure to meet her.

Marina smiled. "I'm just happy to know that Alejandro has some friends that aren't..."

"Jake?" Tom supplied.

"That are closer to his age, sharing interests and ambitions." Marina finished eloquently.

Tom nodded the way children do when their mothers are talking. "So, basically, not Jake."

Marina swatted him on the shoulder, hugged both him and Boaz, and bid them goodbye.

"Your mom is awesome," Boaz said, as the older woman slipped into a cab.

"Don't eeeeever piss her off." Tom replied, and he looked at Boaz with slightly widened eyes.

Recalling the vehemence Marina spoke with when the subject of gridiron came up, Boaz mentally agreed that it was sound advice indeed.

Tom mentioned that Jake was having a party that night and extended an invitation, citing that everyone from work was going to be there.

Boaz agreed – because, why not? – and he and Tom decided to pick up some pizza on the way over.

"What, no booze?" Boaz asked as they hopped off the bus in front of the closest pizzeria to Jake's house.

"Buzzer is bringing the booze," Tom informed him, "Delia has the music and Jake... Jake has a friend that is bringing the fun."

"Fun?" Boaz echoed, and Tom pinched his thumb and forefinger near his mouth and mimed smoking. "Ah, that fun."

=.=

When they arrived at Jake's house, the sun was just starting to set and there was a black panel-van parked out the front. Jake opened the door with a grin almost wider than his face and ushered them in.

"Tom, Bo – welcome!"

Boaz didn't know what he was expecting, but an apartment that looked extremely ordinary to the point of boring wasn't it. Where was Jake's flair splattered over the walls? Where was Jake's attitude adorning the furniture in obscure and probably British ornaments? Where was—

"Is this even your place?" Boaz asked Jake, taking in the plain walls, nearly presented kitchen and lounge room furniture that was too nice and clean to be Jake's. He expected to see Ash's apartment when he walked in, not a display out of some catalogue.

Jake leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone. "Actually, na. 'M just mindin' it fer a coupla friends, so don' break anyfin, yeah?" He then smiled a thumbs up and ducked over to talk to Delia, who was over by the stereo talking with a short kid a couple of years younger than Boaz.

"It is his place," Tom said, "and don't worry, I thought the same thing. But his personality more than makes up for it. Buzzer's though, Buzzer's is exactly what you'd imagine."

Boaz couldn't actually imagine Buzzer's place – maybe a treehouse? – so he didn't say anything. Instead he put the pizza down on the coffee table and made his way over to Delia.

"Hey," He greeted, and looked from her to the stranger who gave him a quick once-over and smiled. "I'm Bo."

"Andy Gallagher," The kid replied, shaking his hand.


	7. The Tripper

#7 The Tripper

"How do you know Jake?"

Andy frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't until about two hours ago. I met him at the gas station, and he said I could park my van here for a couple of days."

"Andy is on a road trip." Delia supplied, taking a sip out of her bright red cup filled with Southern Comfort.

A road trip? The kid looked like he was all of fourteen. "Uh, no offense, but shouldn't you be in school?" Boaz asked, and thanked Delia as she handed him a drink. He sniffed it - Johnny Walker.

"Probably," Andy said and took a swig of his own beverage, a can of Budweiser. "Hey, are you the Lit major?"

Boaz was pretty sure he misheard Andy just then, and while he was trying to figure out what the kid actually said Delia answered,

"No, that's Tom. He's over there." And then she proceeded to point him out.

"Cool," Andy said, and then slapped Boaz on the shoulder. "It was nice to meet you, but if you'll excuse me, I have a philosophical debate that requires some input." He made it all of two feet away before he pivoted and returned. "Oh, and hey, have one on me." He smiled, handing over two joints and giving them a small salute.

Boaz looked at his hand, and then at Delia, who had raised an eyebrow in scrutiny. "Got a light?" She asked, wiggling the joint between her fingers.

"Don't smoke," Boaz replied automatically, and then his brain tried to immediately conjure up something to say to explain his remark to Delia.

"Me neither," She agreed, pausing to drink. "Jake and Buzzer do, maybe they've got one."

"Hey!" Boaz called out to the men who were currently in the kitchen leaning against the bench and fridge.

As though he had said their names, they both looked over in question, and when Boaz held up his spliff, they both reached into their pockets. Buzzer got there first, and tossed his zippo over and Boaz caught it in his cup. Jake nodded to the coffee table, and Delia reached down and picked up the ashtray, placing it in the middle of the three-seater couch on which she also sat.

In what he would later look back on as peer pressure, Boaz joined her on the couch, lighting up and taking a long drag before passing her the lighter.

=.=

At some point after the joint was long gone, replaced by a bowl from Jake, Boaz was on his fifth or sixth or eleventh beer and retelling his experiences in Chicago to Andy; particularly how people seemed to keep mistaking him for someone else.

"You know what you should do?" He gestured to Boaz with his can of cheap beer. "If you don't want them looking at your face, you should give them something else to look at." He then flexed his fingers as though he'd finished a magic trick, _ta-da!_

Either the liquor was starting to get to him - or the marijuana (or both) - or Andy was just not making any sense, because Boaz was left trying to figure out the meaning long after Andy had ambled over to talk to Buzzer.

=.=

Delia swayed across the room to them, her movements entrancing both them and even herself.

" 'Cor, she's pretty." Jake slurred.

"Yeah, in a... pretty sort of way." Boaz agreed, ever the wordsmith.

"She's got a fing fer ya, yer know."

Before Boaz could ask, or even think of anything to say, Jake had stumbled to his feet saying he was going to get another drink. The wink that he sent Boaz when he left made him wonder what exactly Jake was planning to do to said drink.

He didn't get time to ponder it, as Delia had already crossed the room and sat down on the armchair. Her balance being what it was, she overcompensated and fell over until she was leaning against Boaz, her head on his shoulder. "Hey Bo."

"Hey Delia."

She looked a little different upside down. Her mouth was where her eyes were supposed to be and her eyes blinked upwards. Boaz cocked his head to the side to see if it was as interesting from a different angle.

"You know something Bo?" The words looked peculiar as they came out of her mouth, and he couldn't help but stare.

"What?" He asked, tilting his head down so he wouldn't miss it when she replied.

Her mouth opened a slight fraction, inhaling the air she'd need to speak. "- - - - - - - - ," She had said, and everything that happened after that was a big gaping hole in Boaz' memory.

=.=

The next morning he was woken in his Uncle's apartment by the endless waves of pain that were coming from his neck. They were so potent that, when his body started sending the sensation to his brain and his brain had finally woken to what it was registering, his shoulders and head spasmed so hard he fell off the couch and onto the floor. Which didn't help the situation with his neck at all.

This all happened so suddenly to Boaz that he didn't have time to make sense of what was really going on - and thus, swear about it - so all he could do was stumble to his feet in a daze and run for the bathroom to wash some water on the bruised burning that was his neck.

He stumbled into the shower, still clothed, and turned on what he hoped was the cold water. The fates tossed a quick smile his way, for even though he had turned on the hot by mistake, there wasn't any left. Mildly lukewarm water sprayed down onto his head and shoulders, quickly turning to a chilly cold by the time the first droplet had passed down the leg of his pants.

This was both good and bad. Good, for his neck was enjoying an oh-so beautiful respite, and bad because he couldn't stay like this forever because he had to go to work at some point. Also, his clothes were now wet.

As he turned off the shower and gingerly stripped off his shirt, he tried to think of what exactly could have happened last night that would result in the pain he was currently feeling. Try as he might, the last thing he remembered was the party at Jake's, and Delia walking over to talk to him. And now, as he concentrated on it, he couldn't even recall what they'd said, if anything at all.

It didn't matter terribly because, when he dropped the sopping shirt to the ground with a squelchy _splat_, he happened to catch his face in the mirror looking up. One small glance and his eyes shot back in a panicked double take.

Black ink creeped along his neck, curling over itself and splintering out like thorns. Red rimmed the outside of the design, indicating that the skin hadn't fully healed. A tattoo. At some point last night he had gone and gotten a tattoo. He didn't know much about the side-effects of drugs, but he was sure he'd remember getting a _fucking tattoo_.

After two minutes of tentative prodding, he finally turned away from the mirror and finished getting changed.

He had just finished gingerly pulling his shirt over his head when his alarm went off, reminding him to get up and ready. Boaz started at the blaring clock, trying to will it to stop with the power of his mind so he wouldn't have to go to work. When it didn't work he slapped it on his way past to the kitchen where he toasted up half a loaf of bread and contemplated what he would say to Delia when he saw her considering he couldn't remember anything that had transpired. Part of him wished that nothing had happened, and part of him wished that something did. Mostly, he just wished he could remember.

He finished off his breakfast and slipped on his shoes, trudging out of the apartment and into a day that was far too bright for his hungover self. Well, partially hungover – the adrenalin rush brought on by the tattoo went a long way to waking up his senses, and he suspected he'd be regretting that with one hell of a headache later on.

He picked up his skateboard from where he left it, pausing to consider the fact that no one had stolen it yet, and even on the mornings when he thought he'd forgotten it at work the day before, it was still there in the exact same spot waiting for him to ride. Boaz liked his skateboard that way, it was predictable, reliable. It wouldn't get stoned and wake up with a tattoo.

Yeah, his skateboard was awesome. Too bad he wasn't a skateboard.

When he rolled up to work, Boaz made his way out the back to where the others would surely be assembled, and felt a guilty sense of relief when he saw Tom.

"What happened?" Boaz asked quietly, nodding to the shiner on Tom's face.

"No idea," Tom answered in much the same tone, and pulled up his sleeve to reveal a matching bruise on his left shoulder, and then another on just below his right ribcage. "I think Buzzer does, though, but he won't say."

Buzzer must have heard his name because he appeared at that moment, bright and chipper as ever. "It was spectacular." He said, smiling proudly at Tom. "Those frat boys will never forget it."

Tom threw Boaz a look, partly pleading and partly pained from how loud Buzzer was. Boaz caught the hint and asked, "Forget what?"

Buzzer snickered. "You had to be there."

"I was there and you won't tell me." Tom whined, just as Jake appeared;

"Hey Tom, I hear ye 'ad an excitin' night." He clapped Tom on the back, who winced at the noise... or the slap. Or both.

Boaz was sure that the older people weren't supposed to bounce back after a night like they had so well, especially in comparison to both Tom and himself, who were much younger. Jake looked like he had woken well-rested after an early night of knitting and assembling miniature ships inside bottles. Boaz took it as an affront to the laws of nature.

"I sure did, Jake!" Tom exclaimed a little too loudly. "How did you know?"

"Oh y'know, I 'ear fings."

Tom levelled his best glare on Buzzer. "You told Jake but you won't tell me? 'Had to be there' my ass!"

Tom was getting angry, which was something Boaz had never seen from the well-spoken, considerate young man. Before he could vent his frustration on Buzzer though, Jake held up a hand;

"'Old on there, Tom. I'm sure yer having some troubles with yer mind not workin' right, but that's nufin' compared te what Bo's gonna go through when he sees Delia next. Not after wha' 'appened last night, anways."

Boaz blood ran cold. "What did I do?"

"Ya don' remember?"

Boaz gestured to Tom. "Neither of us do! What the hell was in those joints?!"

Jake took in Boaz's new feature with a smile and said, "Personally I fink it's got more t' do wif the copi'us amounts of alcohol you were drinkin' than the pot."

"You shift started ten minutes ago! If you're not going to work, then go home!"

They turned, as one, to the end of the warehouse where the door to the shopfront was. Phil stood there with his arms crossed and his ever-present cigar sticking out of his unimpressed mouth.

"Yes, boss!" Buzzer called, and scurried off to work.

Jake had disappeared as well, so Tom and Boaz made their way over to retrieve their order sheets from Phil.

Phil handed them a stack of delivery receipts. "Tom, Delia needs help out fr..." He trailed off, taking in Tom's shiner.

"Bo, go help..." He paused again, eyeing Boaz's tattoo.

He looked from one to the other and then glanced down at his papers.

"One of you go help her, the other can start the rounds." He then turned around and walked back into his office.

Tom turned to Boaz and said immediately. "I'll take the rounds."

"Oh yeah, thanks man."

"Look, I know you probably don't want to..." Tom looked at the door to the displays, and Boaz interpreted that to mean _walk into the fires of Hell_ "But I really need to know what happened last night. Really."

Boaz took in Tom's marred features and sighed. "Sure."

"Thanks, man." Tom smiled and turned around. "BUZZER, DELIVERIES!"

Boaz flinched from the noise, before squaring his shoulders and making his way through to the shopfront, saying nothing as Delia instructed him to help carry out a set of bedside tables to the customer's car.

When he returned, he was all hands in pockets and nervous energy as he shuffled over to Delia's counter.

"So..."

She handed him a bottle of water.

He took it. "Thanks?"

"I don't remember much of last night." She said, matter-of-factly. "But what I do recall suggests that you're going to need a lot of water."

Boaz looked down at the bottle in his hand. "Thanks." He frowned. "Again."

Delia nodded and focused on her paperwork.

"Look, I uhh..." She didn't look up, but he could see that she had stopped writing. "I don't remember last night either. And there is something I have to ask."

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"Do you know how I got this?" He gestured to his neck.

She stared at the tattoo for the longest time, before dragging her eyes back to his. "No."

She then resumed filling out the sale details before handing Priestly a delivery slip for the tables' matching bed frame. She held onto the paper when he gripped it, forcing him to look into her eyes. "You really don't remember?" She asked softly.

"I really don't."

She released the form and turned away, effectively ending a conversation that they would never have again.

* * *

As with most stories this is told in the past tense, and this one in particular just happens to focus on Boaz. If the chapter seems a little broken or choppy it is because Boaz has some gaps in his memory, particularly during the party.

Unfortunately that's one of the downsides of Mary-J.


	8. The Lost Boy

#8 The Lost Boy

The next couple of months passed without much incidence. Aside from the crazy itching in the first couple of weeks, Boaz nearly forgot he even had the tattoo. It was only when he looked in the mirror that he was reminded of the fact. He stayed away from shopping malls where Grace and Tina (and all women) seemed to frequent. After his impromptu tattoo, he hadn't been back to Jake's (and consequently, visit Andy), though the teen had apparently said that his van was always open. (He'd have to take Jake's word on that, he still didn't remember. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he never did.) His time had been spent working and hanging out with his friends afterhours.

He'd finally managed to pull together the two thousand that he owed Ash, and was happy to finally cross that off his list. The last thing he wanted was some super hacker turning him into a wanted criminal because he didn't square his debt.

He left the apartment and crossed the street to his skateboard much like any other day. On his way past the alley he caught sight of a small, pale head peeking around a dumpster. Feeling charitable (as people are when they have a lot of money in their pockets), he decided to stop and investigate.

Skidding the skateboard to a halt, he kicked it up and leaned it against the wall. "Hey kid," he called, just so the boy would have fair warning he was approaching.

When he rounded the dumpster, he saw the boy curled in on himself, trying to take up as little space as possible. "Hey, it's alright." Boaz said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

The wide-eyed youth looked up at Boaz, his bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. "I'm lost."

"Well, that's an easy fix - where do you live?"

"W-Weller Street," he mumbled, as though he wasn't sure he should be telling him.

Weller Street, he knew where that was. At least he thought he did. It was between here and Ash's, only a little off track. "Shouldn't be a problem," he smiled.

He stuck out his hand, and the small boy took it. When he stood, Boaz was able to get a better look at him. He was pale alright; skin so white it left a haunted look around his eyes. He couldn't have been older than six or seven and his clothes were ratted hand-me-downs from the seventies. He had no shoes on, and Boaz reminded himself to keep an eye out for any broken glass.

When they got back to the street, the boys' eyes lit up at the sight of the skateboard resting against the wall. He sped off to it before Boaz had time to blink. The kid laid it flat on the ground and hopped on, a picture of happiness as he tested it out. If he didn't know better, Boaz never would have guessed the child before him was close to tears not twenty seconds ago.

"You like skateboards, I take it?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I got it for Christmas."

The child rode along the sidewalk at a leisurely place whilst Boaz kept pace alongside.

So that's whose skateboard it was. Still, it didn't explain what it was doing all the way out here. "What are you doing out here if you live in Weller Street?"

"I was looking for my skateboard."

It was a good thing the kid's attention was elsewhere, or he would've noticed the guilty look that came across Boaz' face. He'd been nicking the kid's skateboard for months now.

Something about that didn't make sense, but he shrugged it off. "What's your name, kid?"

By now the boy had sped down to the end of the street, a good ten yards away. He spun around at the corner and shouted something that Boaz couldn't quite make sense of, so he decided to adopt his fail-safe and just not bother using his name.

The conversation pretty much died out after that point anyway. The boy was having too much fun zipping past Boaz and back, waiting for him to get to the end of the street so he knew which way to go next. Boaz didn't think he'd seen a man love his car as much as that kid seemed to like that skateboard.

After twenty minutes of navigating the roads (guesswork on Boaz' part), they finally stumbled onto Weller Street. The kid shot off like a rock down the pavement and Boaz had to jog to catch up. When he did he almost went straight past the house.

Of all the buildings on the street, the kid happened to live on the one that looked like a typhoon had been through. The general state of the house was in disrepair in nearly every way. The paint was peeling, the windows were broken, the front door looked as though it had been broken off years ago and was just now resting against the frame haphazardly. It had to be some kind of trick; surely no one actually _lived_ here.

As he stepped up onto the porch, his foot fell through the second step into sloppy mud underneath. Cursing under his breath, he pulled his leg free and decided to just stop where he was at the top of the landing. "So, this is your home?"

The boy was sitting on a torn-up couch, his feet dangling over the side of one of the arms. "Yep."

"...Right." Boaz didn't have much to say. The inside was probably (hopefully) better and besides, it wasn't his place to judge. "Well, take care of your skateboard." He nodded at it.

The kid caught him looking at his skateboard and his eyes narrowed. "It's _mine_." He hissed possessively.

Not wanting to get in an argument (especially considering he knew he'd been riding someone else's skateboard to work every morning), Boaz put his hands up in the universal 'I surrender' manner. "Didn't say it wasn't."

"You can't have it."

A shiver went down Boaz' spine at the amount of venom in the kids' eyes. If he had been paying attention, he would've noticed his breath came out in vapour, but as it was all his focus was currently on the small child in front of him.

"I don't want it, seriously."

"It's mine and you CAN'T HAVE IT!" By the end the kid was screaming, and Boaz thought now would be a pretty good time to get the hell out of here.

He backed slowly, intent on getting down the steps and far away. But in his haste he forgot about door in the way. His foot kicked it, tilting the top to spin out towards him. Instinctively he leaned back, and ended up falling into the house, the door completing its spin and landing on the left half of his body.

He barely had time to slip the door off him when a fist-sized flower pot flew into the house, smashing on his shoulder.

"Hey look kid, calm down!"

Boaz leapt into the living room as three more pots sailed into the house, narrowly missing his head. He didn't have time to turn around and check, but he hazarded that the kid was still angry, as projectiles continued to fly towards his person as he ran to the back of the house.

When he got to the kitchen he slammed the door and leaned against it with a sigh. It was short-lived as, not five seconds later, a fire poker speared through the door an inch to the left of his neck. Realising it was little use barricading himself against a door so old and worn a friggin' _six year-old_ could shove a poker through it, he left his post and darted across to the other doorway leading into the dining room.

The wind seemed to pick up, gusting in through every splintered gap and weathered opening. And as much as he didn't want to go out in the middle of it, he'd choose it over the mentally unstable youth chasing him through this decrepit excuse for a house.

As he just passed through into the dining room, the kitchen door slammed open with a _bang_. Boaz halted in his step and turned around. The screaming had stopped, so he was hoping the boy had finally calmed down.

Seeing the child holding a large knife in his hands and a murderous look in his eyes, Boaz reconsidered and bolted through to the front door.

It was at that moment his exit was blocked by his own personal psycho friend from the bar wielding a shotgun.

"Jesus Christ!" Boaz shouted and about-faced into the dining room.

Caught between a psycho rock and a just-as-crazy hard place, Boaz skidded to a halt between the two so suddenly that he lost his footing and slipped over. It turned out to be lucky as the man with the gun fired off a round that just went sailing over his head... straight into the boy. But by the time he looked up, the kid was gone.

Normally Boaz would be up and thanking the person who had scared the mini-sociopath off, but seeing as his rescuer was a delusional man with a shotgun, he decided to stay right the hell where he was. _If I don't move, maybe he'll forget I'm here._

It was the naive voice talking, he knew. The realistic one countered that he was simply breathing too hard from adrenalin to possibly pull it off. And besides, the guy was now standing over him with an unreadable expression on his face.

After what seemed the longest length of time, the man offered his hand. Not wanting to offend the guy, Boaz took it and offered a hesitant, "Thanks."

The man opened his mouth, and then closed it. Two more false starts later and he sighed. "Look De... Bo." There was a slight gap as though he wasn't sure that was his actual name. "Why don't you head on home."

Boaz was indignant at being dismissed like some lackey, and was about to retort when he caught sight of the gun.

The man realised the source of his apprehension, and cocked the weapon forcefully. "Now."

Not wanting to turn his back on the nut before him, but not wanting to trip over something again even more, he spun around and left the house at a half-jog.

It wasn't until he was on the sidewalk that he even glanced back. There was no sign of neither the boy nor the man, which did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. Only when he was at Ash's door – having jogged off the rest of his adrenalin – did the paranoia ebb.


	9. The Skateboard

#9 The Skateboard

"Dude," Boaz started before he'd even shut the door, "I just got attacked by a friggin'six year old, I shit you not!"

Though, in his excitement he forgot to check and see whether Ash was actually present to hear his outburst, which he wasn't. Boaz just assumed that since the door was unlocked the man would be lounging in his usual bean-bag chair.

Standing in the middle of the tiny apartment, he quickly ruled out the kitchenette and then contemplated the only two other doors in the room. "Yo, Ash?" He called, and waited for the response.

A muffled sound came from the left, which was either "Come in" or "Coming," he couldn't tell. A few seconds later a toilet flushed and Ash appeared buckling up his jeans. "You got beaten up by a six year-old?"

"No, I was attacked by a six year-old." He corrected, and didn't fail to miss the doubting glance Ash tossed his way.

"Ahuh. And how did that work out?"

_He almost killed me._ "Fine. Look, I just came by to give you the rest of the money I owe you." He shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved all the crumpled bills he'd stuffed in earlier. "That should be it." _Unless I lost some when that kid was throwing shit at me_.

Ash grabbed the bundle with both hands and, after a quick calculating appraisal, he decided it was enough and nudged open the other door and tossed the money in. When he shut the door he paused. "Six years old, you said?"

"About, I'm not sure."

Ash nodded and headed over to the kitchen. "What did he look like?"

Boaz shrugged. "He looked like a kid, until he started tossing knives at me."

"Tossing knives? Like, real ones?"

"Yeah."

"In the street?"

"What? No, I was at his house."

Ash pulled his head out of the fridge. "You followed him into his house?"

"No, he was lost. I was trying to help him get home. Geez, try to do something good and I just can't win."

"Relax man, just trying to get the facts." He finally decided on a beer, and handed one to Boaz. "So, you followed him down to the house on Weller Street...?"

"Yeah, I... Wait, how did you know?"

The bottle stopped just at Ash's lips. "Never mind, continue."

Since he was drinking Boaz couldn't really argue the point, and instead said, "Yeah, Weller Street. It's kinda a dodgy house, practically rundown. You think his parents would take care of it or something."

"You get all sorts," was all Ash said.

"Right. So I drop him off, and up on the porch I notice this skateboard that I've been seeing around.

"I ask him if it was his, and then he starts getting all angry, talking about how it's his and I can't have it and-" He took another swig. "-next thing I know, he starts screaming at me. So I take a couple of steps back and end up tripping over the front door." Ash frowned at that, so he explained that it was already detached from the frame.

"This is where it gets weird." Boaz finished the last of the bottle before he continued. "I'm in the house, trying not to get the kid anymore stirred up than he already is, and then he starts throwing shit at me. So I lead him around the house and back out to the front door, and this nut crashes in with a shotgun and starts firing."

Ash waited a few seconds after he finished, as though he was expecting more. "And that's the weird part?"

"Well, thing is, the guy... he thinks I'm..." _His son? His lover? His grunt? _"Look, I don't know who he thinks I am, but I'm not. It's just... seeing him there just has to be the icing on the cake, you know?"

"Hmm," Ash was staring off in thought. "Then what happened?"

"Well, he scared the kid off so I didn't really stick around to find out."

"Hmm."

When Boaz couldn't find what was so interesting about the dirt and grime and salt by the front door, he waved a hand in his friend's face. "Ash?"

"What?" He blinked. "Oh. So let me get this straight: you got attacked by some kid and you tried to run away from him but someone else showed up and you ran away from them instead?"

"I didn't run away," Boaz defended. "I'm not going to start beating on a little kid just because he's got mental problems."

"Huh. Man, I need a drink." Ash turned and headed back to the kitchenette.

Boaz was about to ask his opinion on the days' events, but Ash beat him to it. "So, who was the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The one with the shotgun, you said you know him - or he knows you, or whatever."

Boaz shrugged. "I don't know. I think he said his name was Jack or John or something. He keeps thinking I'm someone else."

"Man, that's..." Ash searched for a word. "Weird."

"I know, right?"

Ash nodded, and in the silence that followed Boaz realised that he didn't have much else to say, and that;

"I should probably go."

"Yeah, sure. Later."

With neither of them being much for goodbyes, Boaz started to head out.

At the doorway he paused. "Hey Ash? Why did you leave M.I.T.?"

"That's between me and Mary Jane," he replied, and then disappeared into the mysterious room that no one else was allowed in. Though Boaz was now beginning to suspect that all it held was a licence-making machine, and a shitload of money from people he'd forged documents for.

=.=

On his way home he passed by the shops to grab some lunch. Luck would have it that Tina happened to be walking down the very street he was at the same time. Murphy's Luck, of course.

Not wanting a confrontation or another slap, Boaz ducked into the first store he passed - a hairdresser.

"Hi, how can I help you today?" The cheery voice belonged to a slightly effeminate man with bleached blond hair styled in some way that Boaz was sure had a fancy name.

"Uhh, no thanks, just ahh..." His hopes plummeted when he saw her stop at the hot dog cart he was planning to. "You know what? I think I will have a haircut."

The man whose nametag said Pierre led him over to a chair, and twirled one of the black sheets around him with a flourish. "So, what are having today? Something nice to impress a certain lady, hmm?"

His knowing smile gave Boaz no doubts that Pierre had seen him looking out the window at Tina, only just for the wrong reason. "No I..." _If you don't want them looking at your face, you should give them something else to look at._ A spark lit up Boaz eyes as the epiphany stuck him. "I want something different."

"And what would that be?"

His mind ran through various hairstyles, trying to settle on one that would both satisfy him and fulfil its purpose. "Just give me a minute..."

=.=

When John Winchester heard a knock at the door of his motel room, one hand unconsciously reached down towards the gun hidden at the small of his back as he made his way over to the window.

Outside was a man he didn't recognise – couldn't be any older than twenty-five – in ratted clothes. He gave a half-wave. "Hey, Mister, uhh... Page..."

With one hand still resting on the gun, John opened the door with the other. "Can I help you, son?"

The man shifted a little, his hands in his front pockets. "I was wondering if you could help me find someone?"

"Sorry kid, I'm just passing through." He started to close the door.

"His name's John Winchester."

John froze, his blood running cold. With renewed grip, John started to slide the gun out of his waistband. "Why would you be looking for him?"

"I have some information I think he might like to know."

John quickly checked to see that no one else was in sight before he stood back to let the man in. He noticed how the stranger was careful not to disrupt the salt line in the doorway as he crossed.

When he was sitting at the table, John eased into the chair opposite, pulling the gun out and laying it flat on the table pointing at the man across from him. "Start talking."

"Right. So, you'd be John Winchester then?" When John said nothing, the man continued. "Nice choice on the name, Jimmy Page, it was kinda how I found you..."

John sighed. He had to stop letting Dean pick the names on the credit card applications.

"Anyway, so I heard that you're looking into the Davidson's boy, on Weller Street?"

"Where did you hear that?"

He waved a hand vaguely. "Oh, around. And I, uhh, stumbled across something I think might help."

John raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"He's really attached to his skateboard. Like, really."

The skateboard? John had knew something else must have been tying the boy to this realm. He'd already burned the body, after all. But still, how did this guy know? "What's your name?"

"Ash." He replied. John wasn't sure if it was a first or last name, but in this business he knew not to bother asking.

"Ash, how exactly do you know this?"

Ash shrugged. "It's kinda what I do - find stuff out. I knew about the spirit when I moved here, but I ain't no hunter so..."

He let the implication speak for itself, and John had to admit he was a little surprised that the guy knew his own limits. It was a skill John had never particularly mastered.

After Ash told him everything he knew about the haunting, he also mentioned that he'd found another hunt just outside of town, and offered to give John the details. It was at this point John re-evaluated the resourceful man before him. It was clear he wasn't working in a business, or any kind of high-paying job befitting someone with his skills.

"What do you do, Ash?"

He ragged his eyes around the room in a bored fashion. "This and that - go wherever the wind takes me."

"Has it ever taken you to Nebraska?"

He chewed his bottom lip before spitting it back out. "Can't say that it has. Why do you ask?"

"There's some folks down there that could use your skills."

"And by folk you mean hunters, right?" He didn't seem too thrilled by the idea. "Nah man, I stay outta their business and the bumps-in-the-night stay outta mine. I don't want any trouble."

"From the looks of it, you don't get much of anything." It was a low blow, but John felt he needed to give the man a push, like he was just waiting for the excuse to hop on the wagon.

"I got plenty," was his reply, though there was a distinct lackadaisical quality in his eyes.

"What about purpose?" Before he could answer that, John reached over the table to the complimentary notepad the motel offered and pulled out a pen. "Look, if you ever feel like a change - maybe Chicago is a little too Big City for your liking - you should stop by this address-" He held out the slip of paper. "There's some people that would appreciate having you around. Good people. They may even pay."

Ash waved his hands as though he were trying to ward the note away. "Nah, I don't want to... it's not my thing."

"Okay." John let put the paper on the table and shrugged off the matter entirely. "Look, I'm going to get a bite to eat, and while I appreciate the help, I don't want to see you here when I get back."

He picked his gun up off the table and took it with him when he went out the door.

When he returned some hours later, he checked the wards to make sure nothing was disturbed. He also ran inventory his belongings: nothing was missing. It didn't escape his notice that the paper was no longer sitting on the table though.

A self-satisfied smile crept onto his face as his phone rang. It was Dean, asking when he was going to come and pick him up from what he had taken to calling the Eighth Circle of Hell. After clarifying that he wasn't in any real danger, John opted to let his son stew in the repercussions of his own decisions while he checked out the hunt out of town that Ash had mentioned. But that was tomorrow's job.

He had a skateboard to find, you see.


End file.
